Draw me; we will run after thee: The king hath brought me into his chambers; We will be glad and rejoice in thee; We will make mention of thy love more than of wine: Rightly do they love thee.

Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, Where thou feedest thy flock , Where thou makest it to rest at noon: For why should I be as one that is veiled Beside the flocks of thy companions?

If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, Go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, And feed thy kids beside the shepherds tents.

I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, By the roes, or by the hinds of the field, That ye stir not up, nor awake my love, Until he please.

Until the day be cool, and the shadows flee away, Turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart Upon the mountains of Bether.

By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.

I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, By the roes, or by the hinds of the field, That ye stir not up, nor awake my love, Until he please.

Until the day be cool, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, And to the hill of frankincense.

My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door , And my heart was moved for him.

Thy neck is like the tower of ivory; Thine eyes as the pools in Heshbon, By the gate of Bath-rabbim; Thy nose is like the tower of Lebanon Which looketh toward Damascus.

I said, I will climb up into the palm-tree, I will take hold of the branches thereof: Let thy breasts be as clusters of the vine, And the smell of thy breath like apples,

His left hand'should be under my head, And his right hand should embrace me.

Many waters cannot quench love, Neither can floods drown it: If a man would give all the substance of his house for love, He would utterly be contemned.

We have a little sister, And she hath no breasts: What shall we do for our sister In the day when she shall be spoken for?

If she be a wall, We will build upon her a turret of silver: And if she be a door, We will inclose her with boards of cedar.

Make haste, my beloved, And be thou like to a roe or to a young hart Upon the mountains of spices.